Unwoven Threads
by so caffeinated
Summary: Various unrelated short stories that came about thanks to Tumblr prompts. All Arrow, most if not all Olicity.
1. Birds, Bees and Bullseyes

"Oliver…" Felicity says with a curious little furrow between her eyebrows and her head tilted slightly to the side. "Why is our eldest completely obsessed with archery all of the sudden? He _hates_ archery. Like, he'd rather eat green vegetables than go shooting with you. My world is askew."

"What?" Oliver asks, following her gaze out their kitchen window to where their older son is extremely focused with a Nerf bow and arrow.

If Oliver is ridiculously proud that his kid can shoot a pine cone off the tree from the opposite side of their yard, he feels this is totally justified.

"Ever since last Sunday he's been entirely about shooting," Felicity says. "This is Robbie we're talking about. Robbie who would rather draw anime than draw a bow-string. What _happened_?"

Something dawns on Oliver. That much is obvious. He shuffles his feet slightly and stretches his neck to the side a little. Felicity's eyes narrow suspiciously.

"Oliver…" She says, eyebrows raised above the rim of her glasses as she looks at him.

"I'm sure it's nothing," Oliver says uncomfortably.

"What's nothing?" Felicity prods.

"There may have been… a few too many metaphors in our talk over the weekend," Oliver says with a wince.

"Your talk?"

"Yes."

"Your talk about sex. With our eleven-year-old. Had archery metaphors?" Felicity asks in total disbelief.

"I feel like that's something I'm probably supposed to deny, given your tone," Oliver hedges.

"You can't be serious. How in the _world_ did you equate archery to sex?"

"Well… you know… there's patience, obviously. And then there's aim," Oliver says, as if these are valid points. "And follow-through. Plus, practice. Practice is important."

"Oliver! I wanted you to explain to him about safe sex, not give him a how-to guide!"

"Archery requires safety, too," Oliver says a little defensively, but it's a battle he knows he's lost. Mostly because it's against Felicity, but also because Robbie has spent more time shooting pine cones in the last four days than he spent outside all of last summer

"Are you hearing yourself?" Felicity asks. "Do the words coming out of your mouth right now actually seem logical to you?"

"It made more sense in my head," Oliver winces.

"I would think it must have. But, hey, at least you got him outside for a bit. Yay for vitamin D intake," Felicity tells him, squeezing his hand a little in support because the kicked puppy look he's sporting gets her every single time.

"I'll talk to him again?" Oliver asks.

"It's cute that you think that's a question," she laughs.


	2. Finding New Ways Home

"No! Not the pouch! I'm not a joey!"

He tries not to laugh. Really, he does.

Clearly the blonde across the aisle of the bus is having some kind of a nightmare, judging by the thrashing of her arms and frantic muttering in her sleep. But, really, he can't help himself. Because even without being able to see her face or exchanging a single word with her, this woman has somehow vaulted past awkward straight into endearing and he's not really sure how that happened.

But, really, who the hell has nightmares about kangaroos?

"Hey," he says, reaching across the aisle to shake the woman's shoulder gently.

She jumps about a foot at his touch, jolting into wakefulness, and he retracts his hand with a non-threatening gesture. She's confused, obviously, blinking toward him with pale blue eyes, her glasses skewed oddly on her face and her ponytail a little disheveled. She's beautiful, he realizes instantly, in that girl-next-door kind of way. That hasn't really been his type before, but _something_ stirs his interest this time.

"You were having a nightmare," he tells her gently, leaning his arm against the top of his seat-back as he watches her.

"A nightmare?" She asks, blinking into awareness.

"Yeah. About kangaroos. Who has nightmares about kangaroos?" He asks with a laugh.

"Me," she tells him definitively. "You should, too. They're _creepy_. With their pouches and their teeth. And their feet! Do you have any idea how strong they are? How far they can jump? They travel in _mobs_. _Mobs_! I feel like that's a statement all on its own."

He laughs at that as she shudders at the thought.

"Well, you're awake now," he says comfortingly.

"I am. No kangaroos here. You're not a dream. Not that you aren't dreamy. Oh my _God_ I didn't mean that. I'm still actually asleep right? Please tell me I'm still asleep."

"You're still asleep," he obliges with a broad grin.

"You're a really bad liar, you know," she says gravely.

"Darn. You got me. You're actually awake," he says, amusement ringing in his voice, his eyes crinkling with delight at her faux seriousness.

"Oh… oh _damn it_ ," she says looking around.

"What's wrong?" He asks.

"I missed my stop," she groans. "I _knew_ I should have had another cup of coffee, but I really needed to be able to sleep tonight or tomorrow is just going to be… _yeah_. Ugh."

"I'll give you a ride," he offers before thinking about it.

Her eyebrows shoot up at that, wariness settling over her face.

"I don't even know your _name_ ," she points out.

"Oliver," he replies, stretching his hand out to shake hers.

She takes his hand with just a little bit of hesitance, delicate little fingers feeling soft against his. He likes it. Probably more than he should.

"Felicity," she replies after a beat.

Her fingers linger against his for a moment longer than is probably really appropriate for a casual 'nice to meet you' handshake and the idea that she maybe wants to hold on to his hand sends something unfamiliar fluttering in his gut.

"So why are you taking the bus if you have a car, _Oliver_?" She asks, flexing her fingers a little as she talks.

 _My sister bet me I couldn't manage public transit for a day_ , seems like a really terrible answer, even if it is honest. So he goes with the next best thing, which is mostly true anyhow.

"It's Earth Day," he replies, to her obvious surprise. "And my sister and I made a pact this year. Or, well… maybe it was more of a challenge to one-up each other. We're sort of competitive."

"That's… not what I expected," she hedges. "I try not to judge books by their covers, but honestly you don't exactly scream tree-hugger."

"Well, I like the idea of saving the Earth. Or, at least saving the city," he shrugs. "It's home, right?"

"It… is," she agrees, nodding slowly in his direction. "So you'd lose your sibling-Earth-Day-pact just to drive me home?"

"Winning isn't everything," he shrugs. "Besides. I still took the bus."

"It's the thought that counts, I guess," she acknowledges, stretching her neck to work the kinks out from sleeping against a window.

"In part," he agrees, more than a little mesmerized by the long line of her neck. "You take the bus every day?"

"I had a car. Leased it. A little red mini Cooper. I really liked it, but it was that or tuition money and my doctorate's not going to pay for itself. So… hello public transit," she says. "What kind of car do you have?"

"The kind that's a motorcycle," he replies.

"Of _course_ it is," she laughs, shaking her head.

"What's that supposed to mean?" He asks, brow tightening a little.

"Nothing, just… that whole book and its cover thing?" She asks, leaning forward conspiratorially. "Your book jacket is _way_ more motorcycle than it is the city bus."

"Is it now?" He asks, mirroring her and leaning partway across the aisle.

"Totally," she says with a wince, like she's letting him in on some unfortunate truth.

"What else is on my book jacket?" He asks, biting his lip a little to keep from grinning.

He doesn't miss the way her gaze drops to his mouth for an instant. And… _yeah_ , there's something here. Something he's not going to let slip through his fingers without taking a shot to see what happens.

"Hmmm…" she says, tapping her lips in thought. "Well you come off as a bit of a bad boy, what with the motorcycle and all. And probably you _are_ a bit rebellious. Just enough to be interesting without letting it define your life. You've got a job in business, but you'd rather work with your hands. You're well liked by people who know you but you're only really close with a small handful of friends. Oh, and you hate brussel sprouts."

"I hate brussel sprouts?" He asks with a laugh.

"It seemed like a safe guess. After all, who likes brussel sprouts?" She asks with a knowing gaze.

"Interesting theory," he says with a slow nod, not giving her any hints on how close to the mark she is.

"How'd I do?" She asks challengingly.

"Maybe you should read the book instead of just the summary on the cover. Find out if you're right for yourself," he tells her, his eyes drifting down to watch as she licks her lips.

"Wait… are you _flirting_ with me?" She questions, blinking at him in astonishment.

"Not very well if you have to ask," he replies, utterly charmed by her surprise.

" _Seriously_?" She asks.

"My stop's next," he tells her. "We can go grab a cup of coffee or I can drive you home if you'd rather. Or, if you aren't comfortable with that, I'll get you a cab. It's up to you."

He's actually _holding his breath_ while he waits for her to reply. She takes her time, watching him for something, he doesn't know what. It makes him want to know, though. Makes him want to find out more about her, figure out what she's thinking in this moment. Because, while she might be able to read _him_ like a book, she's keeping him guessing. And he _loves_ that.

"Well... " she says finally. "I _do_ like coffee."

He smiles hugely as he exhales.

"Me too," he says as the bus rolls to a stop and he stands, reaching out a hand to her to help her up. "I like brussel sprouts, too, though."

"Really?" She asks, putting her hand in his and not letting go even after she's standing.

"Really," he replies, more than a little delighted at the way her fingers tangle with his. "Guess you _don't_ already have me all figured out."

"Maybe not yet," she acknowledges as they make their way off the bus. "But I'm looking forward to it."

He smiles. He is, too.


	3. Surfacing

They have just enough good days in a row that she stops expecting the bad ones.

Things haven't been perfect. Digg still isn't speaking to Oliver and Thea's still struggling to find her footing with Roy out of her life. But with him, with _them,_ things are better than they've ever been.

Until they're not.

She's gotten used to waking up beside him, head resting in the crook of his arm and leg draped between his. She's gotten used to waking up to his fingers stroking her arm or his lips meandering a path down her body. She's gotten used to things being fantastic, feeling like every dream she's ever had came true all at once. It's dangerous, she'll realize later, to start expecting things to be perfect. Because when they're _not_ …

She wakes with a start. It's not his usual slow exploration of her body coaxing her to awareness. It's the press of a forearm to her throat, not enough pressure to do _real_ damage, but surely enough to wake her up and put her in an immediate state of terror.

It's not Oliver she sees when she wakes up, his eyes are always warm and familiar. Loving. No, when she wakes up it's Al Sah-him she sees, face blank and eyes drained of any sense of affection. She can't help saying Oliver's name anyhow, can't help hoping somehow, some way, just saying it will bring him back.

"Oliver Queen is dead," is his immediate response.

"Well he's sure not here right now," she manages to breathe out.

His arm lets up slightly on pressure against her throat as he studies her, studies the room, takes stock of where he is and what's going on. Felicity's blinking back tears, wondering what the hell happened, how to bring him back, what Oliver will do when he realizes he's not always _Oliver_.

He thinks he beat this, she knows. He thinks that all of the conditioning and the drugs and the god-damned _brainwashing_ Ra's put him through amounted to nothing. It's not as simple as that. It never was. Sometimes he was stronger than it, convincing everyone around him that there was nothing of Oliver Queen left. And sometimes… sometimes he ran a sword through someone he was hallucinating to be his best friend.

She hopes, wild and desperate, that he doesn't hurt her. He could, she knows. He could kill her as easily as he breathes. But Oliver would never forgive himself. John would never forgive him either. There's some things you just don't come back from.

"You were his beloved," Al Sah-him says, releasing her entirely but eyeing her closely and still looming over her.

She's the furthest thing possible from a threat at the moment, naked in every possible way, sprawled across their bed and pinned beneath him.

"He's still mine," she offers up, voice thick and daring, chin jut out proudly.

Something flashes through his deadened eyes at that and it's _terrifying_. She sucks in a breath and tenses, half expecting him to strike out at her, but it never comes.

"I am not him," Al Sah-him tells her, voice deadened.

"No," she agrees, wholly meaning it. "You are _not_."

There's satisfaction, if not happiness, on his face at that and some of the wariness and tension in his impressively muscled frame eases off. He pulls away from her and she lets out a tentative sigh of relief.

His eyes drift down her nude form and her hands itch to grab for the sheet and shield herself from his gaze. But she doesn't. She lays still instead, letting him drink in the situation in whole. It has to be confusing for him, she realizes, to wake up one morning weeks after he last surfaced in a situation worlds away from what he remembers. She doesn't want to jar him for _so many_ reasons.

"What's the last thing you remember?" She asks him curiously.

"My bride trying to stab me at our wedding," he answers immediately.

She winces at that, which is something he catches instantly because Al Sah-him is nothing if not observant.

"You object to that," he notes curiously. "Because she tried to harm the body that used to house your beloved or because she's my wife?"

"That's not really an either/or kind of question," Felicity tells him honestly.

He doesn't respond. At least not with words. He's appraising her anew, cold, hard eyes searching her face before drifting back down her body.

There's _interest_ there, she realizes, suddenly. She knows that look. Or, at least, a look much like it. Oliver has never been detached like this. Not _ever_. But the way his pupils dilate slightly, the hungry edge to his perusal. She knows _that_. Even if she didn't, though, he's looming over her, caging her in, and his cock is half hard against her hip.

The realization stuns her, leaves her reeling. Because what does she do with that? How does she react when Oliver isn't _Oliver_. It's not something she's ever contemplated before. It's not something she's ever thought she'd _have_ to contemplate.

"And yet I wake to find myself here. With _you_ ," he points out.

"Your relationship with your wife isn't exactly the conjugal sort," she points out.

His eyebrow lifts slightly at that and it _hurts_ how closely that looks like Oliver. It's not though. It's not. And she knows it.

"Ours looks to be," he points out.

"No," she tells him definitively. "It's not."

"All evidence to the contrary," he tells her.

"You might wear my lover's face, Al Sah-him. But you are _not_ him," she says defiantly.

His brow furrows a little at that as her words turn over in his mind. The spark of interest in his eyes an instant before shifts into something else entirely, quite suddenly. His face grows harder as the confusion lifts.

"Oliver Queen is not dead," he realizes aloud.

"No," she replies. "He's not. But apparently neither are you."

There's fury on his face, probably masking fear, she realizes, but that doesn't make it any more comforting. She tenses for whatever is going to come next. But there's no violence. Instead, he pushes off the bed and stalks to the bathroom. It's only when the door slams behind him that she breathes out a shuddering exhale. It's not relief and it's not terror. It's both. And neither. And a hundred feelings she hadn't expected and can't quite define.

Her hand drifts to cover her mouth, shaking fingers doing nothing to muffle the sound of a desperate sob. She gives herself two minutes to break down. Her body shakes and tears spill down her cheeks and she can't even _breathe_ properly.

The shower turns on then and reality settles in. Al Sah-him is in her bathroom. He slept in her bed and wears Oliver's skin and _oh my God_ this is a _problem_.

She scrambles for her cell phone on the nightstand, fingers hovering over the contact list for a moment as she weighs what to do. Ultimately, though, given the realities of their lives now, the choice on who to call is simpler than she'd like. She glances towards the closed bathroom door for just a second before clicking the call button on the phone.

"Felicity?" Asks a tired voice on the other end of the line. "Is everything okay? What time is it?"

"Laurel," Felicity says, trying and failing to keep her voice from shaking. "We have a problem."


	4. Pulse

The pulse of Starling City beats on in his absence, in _their_ absence. Life flows through her arterial veins at the intersections of Main and Pollock, Kensington and Worth, a constant stream of people rushing through their days with the pulse of routine. The cancers of the Glades and City Hall are kept in check by other masks flexing their muscles and other faces tapping into her nervous system from behind a computer screen. Her immune system, they fight to rid her of the rot that plagues her still.

And they manage.

They _do_.

She is strong. And yet, she is different, changed in some way she can't quite seem to quantify.

The Arrow is dead, she thinks. _Dead_. The Arrow bled out on the dank, grimy floor of her seediest underbelly. She has killed him. And she is _sorry_ for it and she is irrevocably, markedly _different_ for it.

Her lights are dimmer, reality grittier, even as the days lengthen, stretch out toward midnight with too much sun. The air is all stifling and oppressive, a choking mix of summertime heat and ever-present exhaust. Sometimes, she can't _breathe_ in his absence, under the weight of what she's done. The summer wraps its fingers around her neck and tightens it grip. Every breath is effort. Every breath is labored.

She slouches towards normal come Autumn, when the air turns crisp and leaves crunch beneath high heels and the wheels of a Porsche with too much mileage. It takes time. She's still not the same. But soon enough there's a man with a bow and a different mask, but the same mission to save her. And there's familiar fingers at keys that navigate the ebb and flow of her energy like they're mapping out her nervous system.

She breathes deep the cool, clear air of Fall, gulping it down with great relief as the chokehold 'round her slackens its grip and lets her breathe easy.

He is _here_. They are _back_. She is not complicit in his death, in her own destruction, in the exorcism of her very soul. They are home. And she is whole for the first time in months.

Bit-by-bit, little-by-little, she is saved.


	5. On Their Sleeves

He's so busy on his phone that when the barista asks his name for the order he actually gives her a business card as a response. It's a dick move and he knows it but he's been dealing with the QC Vice President of Regulation and Licensing back in New York for three hours now. It's only eight in the morning. He's just now _finally_ managed to get a word in edgewise with the guy.

He feels like he more than makes up for his rudeness by leaving a really sizable tip, but he still ends up with a coffee for Orville.

One look back at the barista, a strikingly pretty blonde with glasses and a ponytail, tells him this was absolutely intentional. Her eyebrows are raised at him challengingly and, to his great surprise, he finds it's a challenge he really, _really_ welcomes. In fact, he'd go so far as to call it the best part of his day. Not that there has been a lot of competition for that so far.

Still… when he stops for coffee the next morning, he makes sure to call the marketing team right before stepping foot inside the shop. His barista glowers. He grins. And he ends up with a coffee for Oscar with a quick sketch of a kicked over trash can.

This escalates. Quickly. Daily.

He's not actually even talking to anyone on the other end of the line by the third day but he really likes the way her brow furrows and she huffs in frustration - and, okay, so maybe that makes him a bit of an asshole - but it's adorable and he ends up with a coffee for Olaf and a drawing of a snowman melting on the sleeve of his cup

He keeps the sleeve.

Eventually, the names on the cups get even more ridiculous. It takes a while because he keeps this up far longer than it makes any sense to do so. He's annoying her. Obviously and intentionally. But it's entertaining and the easiest way to get her cheeks to flush and - okay so maybe he's a bit like a third-grader around her actually.

But two weeks into this (the day after he ends up with a coffee for Olivia which, as it turned out, was actually an extra hot soy latte with hazelnut meant for the woman next to him) his cup says 'Oh Lover' instead of his name, with little hearts on it and she _winks_ at him from her till.

He grins back and raises his cup toward her like a toast. She blushes and looks away and he's _done_ for. This thing between them is all fun and games, but the blush on her cheeks does interesting, twisty things to his insides that far surpass any expectations he might have had. Maybe, he thinks, this really shouldn't be just a game.

The next morning, he doesn't come through for coffee. He waits until just after midday instead, when the shop is all but empty but she's still standing alone at her till.

"Do you need medical attention?" she asks immediately as he walks up.

He looks around in confusion because surely she's talking to someone else, but there's no one around.

"Your phone," she clarifies pointing towards the side of his head. "I assumed it was surgically attached to your ear. It has to be painful for it to suddenly be removed like that, though I'm not sure if you need a doctor or tech support."

A few years ago he'd have made a quip about needing some immediate mouth-to-mouth, but he instinctively knows she's not going to fall for any lame pick-up lines and it makes him even more grateful than usual that he's not that guy anymore.

"It was a symptom, actually," he tells her instead with an earnest look as she narrows her eyes at him suspiciously.

"A symptom?" she asks.

"Rudeitis," he says, enjoying the way her nose crinkles at his ridiculousness. "I had a terrible case of it. It lasted far too long."

"Rudeitis, huh? That's what you're going with?" she questions, but the amusement is clear on her face so - yes, yes that is what he's going with.

"Yup," he nods with a too-pleased dimpled grin.

"Well... is it contagious?" she probes, looking at him like she might be considering taking a step back.

"Not anymore, I hope," he tells her. "You'll have to tell me if you start feeling any sort of strange symptoms coming on."

"Strange symptoms?" she asks, biting her lip to keep in a laugh.

"If you have the sudden urge to tell someone your name by giving them your business card, for instance," he points out.

"That _would_ be a strange symptom," she agrees. "And not just because I don't have business cards."

"Well it presents different on everyone," he ventures. "But if you… say… told me to stop talking to you and leave the shop, I think that would qualify, too. I wouldn't hold it against you, being a medical condition and all."

"Not likely," she snorts. "How many people tip $20 for their morning coffee? It's really just you and… no actually, it's just you."

"You don't have to talk to me just because I'm a good tipper," he tells her, suddenly alarmed. "You don't… I mean, you don't need to feel obligated to-"

"No," she interrupts before he can finish that train of thought. "That's not… that's not why I'm talking to you."

She adjusts her glasses and looks at him with some incredibly endearing combination of apprehension and interest. He stops breathing for a beat. Really he does. Because she's biting her lip to keep words in while she waits for him to talk but her eyes are speaking volumes all on their own and he's never in his life been so interested in someone else's nonverbal communication.

"No?" he asks, knowing he sounds more hopeful than he should.

"Nope," she replies, licking her lips nervously.

"Good," he says, a little softer than he'd intended but that's what happens when you're breathing kind of shallowly.

"So how do you clear up a case of rudeitis, anyhow?" she asks.

"Well…" he says, figuring it's pretty much now or never. "You have a pretty blonde get your name wrong daily and doodle increasingly violent messages on your coffee cup."

The grin that overtakes her face is all encompassing, contagious even, and he marvels a little at the idea that he wasn't entirely kidding. Rudeitis might be a silly inside joke between them at this point, but she definitely holds the cure for something ailing him. He hasn't felt this kind of lightness, this wisp of joy, in _years_.

"I see," she says, looking so very pleased that it makes his heart speed up. "Well… you haven't had your dose today then, have you?"

"No, but I think I'm ready to move on to the next phase of my treatment," he tells her.

"And what would that be?" she asks.

"Dinner, maybe? Say… six o'clock? At that new seafood place on Fifth and Elm?"

He's hopeful. He's _so_ hopeful that if Tommy were here he'd be falling over laughing at him and making comments about how he used to be _good_ at this kind of thing. He used to be smooth. But he doesn't need to be smooth. Not with her. Genuine, it seems, works a whole lot better.

"Okay then, Oliver Queen," she decides instantly, her blue eyes alight. "I'll meet you there at six."

"See! You can get my name right," he points out.

"Let's see how long _that_ lasts," she counters as he heads out the door with a spring in his step and a grin on his face.

It lasts a very long time, in no small part because three or four years down the line she shares part of it.


End file.
